


The Infinity of a Broom Closet

by bottledyarn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:35:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottledyarn/pseuds/bottledyarn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has never lived a human life, but for the first time, as he stands in an inconsequential hotel room, he wants to. If he had been obsessed <em>before</em>, his state after being chased into a broom closet by Dean could not be named, it is too enormous, too incomprehensible. It consumes him. It is not an obsession, it is his entire world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Genesis

 Every Biggerson's is the same. Perfectly identical, nothing defining one from the other except the strikingly similar staff working there. Waiters with the same personality, the same fake smile, the same uniform. The same type of plates, the same level of beverages in freshly poured cups, the same wallpaper. Even the views outside the small windows were similar- they gazed out at vague, unrecognizable roads. The pictures hanging on the walls were all the same, too- abstract pictures of hamburgers and ice cream, as if that would make the lukewarm, mildly tasty food any better. Even the smell of the rarely-used floor cleaner is the same, mingling with the scent of deep-fat-fried onions, dropped in whole.

Castiel takes only a moment in each one that he visits, long enough to take a breath and a picture. It's something of an obsession of his, the only thing that he can think about anymore. He's careful- very careful, of course, as he has cultivated himself to be- and he has not yet been noticed. After twenty visits, he changes clothes, parts his hair differently, and begins to place himself in a new position during his visits. It's easiest to start in the broom cupboard: dark, private, and _very_ rarely visited.

He did once arrive in a broom cupboard with one of the waitstaff, but fortunately they were snorting cocaine and didn't exactly feel inclined to tell anyone what they'd seen, or what they thought they'd seen. Once in a blue moon Castiel would arrive in a bathroom, always going for the first stall of the men's restroom- the one nobody ever used because a) nobody wants to use a Biggerson's toilet, and b) if worst came to worst and a man had to use a toilet, they'd use the last one just by psychological urge to be less ostentatious.

And extremely rarely, only when he began to get bored with his locations, he would arrive just outside the restaurant, by the dumpsters. When he felt extremely daring, of course, that was when he'd arrive in the restaurant itself, tempting fate and checking how observant Biggerson's customers were.

When he begins to feel hungry- it's not very often- he'll order a turkey sandwich and an iced tea with no ice, because he couldn't possibly stomach anything else on their menu. Most of the time he'd just walk calmly into the dining area (the trick was to seem perfectly at ease, as if everyone else was wrong) and snap a picture before leaving.

Only twice has someone said anything to him about the pictures- the first time a waitress tapped him lightly on the shoulder and asked if he was a journalist, and the second time a pot-bellied man eating a cheeseburger tried to shove him against a wall and tell him that he had not agreed to have his picture taken. Castiel had disappeared immediately, and the echo of an image of the man gasping lingered in his mind as he slipped into a broom closet of a new Biggerson's.

Castiel has never lived a normal life- never formed an attachment to anyone, never held a job, never had a real conversation. He's never paid for anything- it pains him slightly to do so, but he flicks in and out of motel rooms and Biggerson's to sleep and eat on the rare occasions that he need to do so.

He isn't entirely sure when he became completely immersed in his traipse through the Biggerson's of the world. Maybe it was the time that he checked back through his photographs before going to sleep one day and saw _him_ again. Castiel had cursed himself at the time, realizing that he should have been using an old camera, one that would print the picture immediately so that he could write down the location of the Biggerson' the picture had come from. He had shook his head at his own stupidity- he'd gotten so enveloped in taking the photographs that he hadn't been looking at the restaurants until he went back through to look back. If he started doing both those things- looking and labeling, then he could see _him_ firsthand _and_ go back to the same restaurant to see _him_ again, take another picture.

His system is flawed, of course. His obsession with this stranger combined with his desire to remain separated from humanity leaves him in a strange limbo- he does not simply want to snap pictures and leave, he wants to _own_ this man, in his heart at least.

He'd happened into a Biggerson's by accident the first time. He'd messed up, landing there instead of on top of the Statue of Liberty, and as he had his camera out already, to take a picture of the New York skyline, he pushed his finger down and snapped a picture before realizing where he was. He flicked away from that restaurant quickly, and glanced down at his camera once he was safely in a hotel room, and found that in the very center of the photograph, a man stared straight into the lens. Not any man- not an ugly man, not a plain man, not even an ordinary man, but an immaculate man. Castiel had never experienced any kind of attraction, or even pleasant observance, of any man or woman until that moment. The man glared out of the picture, unknowingly centering himself in the photograph and suddenly in Castiel's life.

His life became confusing at that moment, when his empty heart suddenly was pierced by this stranger's green eyes. It took him six thousand visits to Biggerson's to find the man again, and has been to four thousand more moments in Biggerson's since then. He's kept a log of the visits, a fat notebook in his coat pocket, bulging with the records of Castiel's whole life's purpose. He did not know where he was when he first found the man, but he does know where he found the man the second time- but he doesn't know the _when._

Castiel briefly brings himself to a shed in Canada in two thousand and five, arriving five seconds after he left the last time. One of the bins of his clothes is slipping off the shelf from where he disrupted it on his last visit, a visit twenty Biggerson's ago. He catches the bin and opens it, pulling out a suit and tie, and as an afterthought, a trench coat. It was the exact same outfit he'd been wearing the first time he'd captured the man's image, and considered it a lucky combination of clothes.

With a sigh Castiel shifts into a Biggerson's restaurant. Santa Fe, Denver, Pittsburgh, St. Louis, Tucson, Lincoln, Reno, Bangor, Portland, Hartford, Medford, Los Angeles, Seattle, and Palm Bay flicked by, and he collects those images. He pauses in Palm Bay, labeling all twelve of those new photographs before he could forget. The man is not in any of them, of course- Castiel had been looking around each restaurant, so that if the man were there he could have taken more pictures, and taken a chance to really stare into the man's eyes, see if the photographs had exaggerated the grassy green of his eyes.

Castiel wonders sometimes if he ought to create some kind of system, progress slowly through time and look for the man. But he can't bring himself to do that- it would take too much effort. It would take thousands of visits for every day in Biggerson's history, and he wants to get lucky for once, find the man with just a shred of good fortune. And besides, chances are, the man hasn't been to the future or the past, and only has a small window of time during which he's visited Biggerson's, maybe forty years. When he thinks about it, his whole modus operandi doesn't make sense. He's relying wholly on the idea that he'll stumble into the man again- he's managed it twice before, after all. He sighs again, wondering why he even bothers. He ought to stick to the location he found the man before, shovel through the debris of time until finding that same moment. But he could run into himself again, that's the whole problem.

He fights the temptation to punch a wall, and instead moves to another Biggerson's, another time. He follows his instinct, hoping that some God would smile on him, guide him to the man.

Castiel sees another brown wall, another set of mops, and steels himself, bringing out his camera before stepping out of the broom closet. It's six steps to the main restaurant, it always is. Six steps, left out of the closet, a sharp right turn, and there it is. Another Biggerson's, another time. A tiny sign by the kitchen he passes proclaims that it's Black Rock, New York, and a glance at a customer's cell phone tells him that his time aim is right, or at least within a year.

He positions himself by the random plant in the corner, as he always does, and raises his camera, about to take the picture, when he hears a shout.

“Congratulations!” a man screams, and a little bell goes off before some singing starts and balloons careen from the ceiling. Castiel lowers his camera and stares, and watches the host of the restaurant hand a large check to two men.

He walks quickly closer and peers at the men, and nearly chokes when he sees their faces. One is _the_ man, and he's smiling hugely, and his eyes aren't the same as the pictures, they're better- they're a olive toned, bright green, much better than the grassy color they take on in the photographs.

Castiel waits until the two men sit down to walk up to them. He knows that he shouldn't, he knows that he should just take a picture and leave again, but he's curious.

“Hello,” he says, standing beside their table.

Both men look up at him, and the larger one, the one he's seen in the pictures with _his_ but has never paid attention to, lowers the top of his laptop slightly.

“Can I help you with something?” the larger one asks politely.

Castiel falters. “I just thought I...recognized you.”

 _The_ man narrows his eyes slightly.

“You stared at us in a Biggerson's last week,” he says, his voice creamy with just a crackle of _something_ , like crunchy peanut butter. “You had that same creepy trench coat on, and then you disappeared.”

Castiel shifts away from them slightly.

“Oh,” the larger one says. “I remember when you told me about that...I thought you were hallucinating, Dean!”

_Dean._

“No, I was definitely not,” Dean says, rising. “What are you?”

Castiel shakes his head.

“I just thought you were someone I knew, I'm sorry to trouble you,” he says, stumbling away from Dean, suddenly afraid.

“Demon?” the larger one suggests, seeming disinterested.

Dean reaches for something in his coat, and Castiel turns and walks quickly around the corner, hearing Dean's footsteps behind him. Castiel glances over his shoulder as he enters the broom closet, and sees that Dean is only a few steps behind.

When Dean opens the door to the closet, scarcely a millisecond later, Castiel is gone.

Castiel regroups in a hotel room, sinking onto a bed. He hadn't even taken a picture. All he'd done was get himself actually _involved_ with humans, humans that didn't find it baffling for him to have disappeared.

He presses his lips together, thinking. He considers stopping, giving up on Dean, and his stomach drops at the thought. He swallows dryly and stands up. He couldn't possibly give up, not now. He'd already gone and broken his first rule, to not become someone anyone actually _knows._ Why not break every other rule in his book, and go further?

Castiel has never lived a human life, but for the first time, as he stands in an inconsequential hotel room, he wants to. If he had been obsessed _before_ , his state after being chased into a broom closet by Dean could not be named, it is too enormous, too incomprehensible. It consumes him. It is not an obsession, it is his entire world. 


	2. Exodus

It's easy to slip back into the constant grind of flipping through Biggerson's like pages in a book. It barely takes any effort at all, really. Once the adrenaline of being chased into a broom closet wears off, the only driving force in Castiel's mind is the desire to find Dean again.

Castiel decides to change his clothes first. Dean's offhand comment about his coat being “creepy” concerns him- does that make him, by extension, creepy? That was never his intent. He simply wanted to track Dean down, collect photographs. He cannot comprehend why Dean would find him creepy- if their places were swapped, Dean would have tracked himself down. Castiel cannot imagine that a person could see Dean staring at them through a photograph and not feel the need to find him.

Castiel has seen many more people from the past and future than any normal human. He's seen a woman who claimed to be a “supermodel”, paid to be beautiful, and she found it offensive when he said that she was “completely the same as every other female”. He's seen a famous young man who was in the middle of being chased by young girls who called him “perfect” and screamed as they tried to catch the boy. But he's never met any person as stunningly, overwhelmingly perfect as Dean. To Castiel his face seems crafted by angels, the sort of person who could spark a second Trojan war, the sort of person who could inspire Michelangelo.

But to some extent, Castiel feels that Dean's beauty was not what moved Castiel to track him down. The expression on Dean's face in that first photograph was what motivated the obsession. The hint of suspicion, mingled with the bright curiosity that seldom remains in a human beyond their childhood years.

Castiel slips out of his “creepy” trench coat and adjusts his suit. Dean hadn't said anything about the suit.

He bounces through a few Biggerson's in Nebraska, drifting up to the sole Alaskan Biggerson's just for a change. Dean wouldn't be in Alaska. Castiel has only seen him in the continental United States, as far as he knows, and as he understands, it is not easy for humans to travel long distances. Castiel finds a Biggerson's near the one he'd last seen Dean in, but finds nothing exciting in it but a frightened sparrow which has fluttered in through an open door. Castiel reaches up a hand for the bird, and it alights on his finger. The people in the restaurant stare at him, having been so enraptured in watching the bird. Castiel walks out of the restaurant and turns around the corner before shaking the bird from his finger and leaving.

Castiel doesn't particularly want to move forward in time too significantly, thinking that perhaps Dean would be less angry with him if Castiel could manage to find him quickly. The five hundred Biggerson's that Castiel knows of in the United States fly by him in quick succession, and he does not bother to change his clothes. So be it if their security cameras each capture the same man in the same place in the same restaurant in the same time in different places. Nobody could catch him, anyway.

Castiel knows that he has a nearly infinite amount of time to play with, as he has not aged in all of the years that he has wandered. He wonders sometimes if he is a mutated human who cannot remember where his origins lie.

His earliest memory is of standing in a dark woods, with no idea of how he arrived there. In the next moment the brief image of a waterfall flashed through his mind, and he was suddenly standing by one, the water flickering onto his cheeks. He had realized quickly that he could move through space, and it took him only a few destinations to realize that he was not bounded by time, either. He did not have memories, but the smallest echoes of images lingered in his mind, and those pushed him to move, to seek out the things that found shelter in his nearly empty mind.

He first stumbled across humanity in a church, a behemoth stone thing adorned with crosses, colored glass leeching across the walls. There were hundreds of the creatures kneeling, some kneeling in rags, others kneeling in colorful robes that spilled across the gray floor. A man adorned with an extravagant hat and robes stood at the front before the prostrate crowd and spoke to them, his voice growing in a crescendo before sinking slower and quieter, a ritardando and decrescendo. The humans listened, rapt, and seemed to worship the man as he spoke of “God”. Castiel did not understand the concept at the time, and it took him many more experiences to learn of what the word meant. He witnessed wars and genocides over the word, but understood only when he slid into a building full of sick humans and found a woman crying out for God in her deathbed.

He finds it impossible to travel more than a few years at a time- he didn't realize the shortcoming at first, but after many small jumps forward, humans began to publish newspapers with the year noted on them, and realized that if he stretched himself he could only move two years forward or back at a time. He'd tried moving fifty years without any pauses once, and found that he required sleep at the end of the exertion. The only times he needs the strange unconsciousness is after long travels of time. He finds the limitation to be simple, scarcely a weakness at all. He does not care so much about traveling far in time- his true love was going to far away places, at least until he started the hunt.

Castiel weaves in and out of Biggerson's for as long as he can stomach. Eventually, he finds himself wanting to take a break- not out of exhaustion but because of sheer boredom. Dean has not surfaced yet, so Castiel finds a slightly cleaner than usual Biggerson's and sits to actually eat.

The familiar twinge of guilt flicks on in his stomach as he leaves his bill unpaid, and he quickly finds a new Biggerson's to photograph. The restaurant is dark- not something Castiel has seen before. He glances at the clock to find that it is seven pm, which is well before closing time.

He takes a few more steps and treads on something soft. Looking down, expecting to see a lost stuffed bear, he sees a human, their stomach bulging out. They seem with child, but in the wrong place- the bulge sticks out from below the person's ribs, and a raw onion with a bite taken out of it rolls from the person's grasp. He sees an old man sitting in the center of the room, ringed by three men in suits. Castiel backs around the corner again.

The door jingles and Castiel drops behind the counter, wondering why he feels hungry. He never feels hungry, only ever occasionally bored enough to eat. A tray full of ground beef, waiting to be cooked, beckons from the counter and Castiel slides it down to himself, quietly gorging himself. He ought to leave, of course, but he's so hungry...and curious. There are quiet footsteps behind Castiel, in the kitchen, and he hears several thumps and a gun's click before two of the suited men walk by, dragging a third men into the main area.

“You're mister Winchester,” the old man says.

“So this is your big trick?” Castiel recognizes the voice as Dean, but he cannot seem to drag himself away from the tray of meat to look at him. He takes a spare thought to note that Dean's last name is Winchester, a perfect last name for him. Dean Winchester. “Making people coo-coo for cocoa puffs?”

“Doesn't take much, hardly a push,” the old man says. “Oh America- all you can eat all of the time, consume consume, a swarm of locusts in stretch pants, and yet you're all still starving because hunger doesn't just come from the body, it comes from the soul.”

“That's funny, it doesn't seem to be coming from mine,” Dean says.

“Yes, I noticed that,” the man replies. “Have you wondered why that is, how you could even walk in my presence?”

“I like to think it's because of my strength of character,” Dean says, and Castiel smiles into the meat. He recognizes a hint of humor.

“I disagree,” the man says.

Dean grunts and lets out an odd shout.

“Yes,” the old man says. “I see. That's one deep dark nothing you've got there, Dean. Can't feel it, can you? Not food, nor drink, not even with sex?

“Aw, you're so full of crap,” Dean replies.

“Ah, you can smirk and joke and lie to your brother and lie to yourself, but not to me. I can see inside you, Dean. I can see how broken you are, how defeated. You can't win and you know it but you just keep fighting, just keep going through the motions. You're not hungry, Dean, because inside you're already dead.”

Castiel feels horrified at this- Dean is certainly not dead inside, he can't be.

“Let him go,” a new voice says. It sounds like the large man from Castiel's last past experiences with the two men.

“Sam,” the old man says, and Castiel adds that name to his information.

“Sammy, no,” Dean says, and Castiel recognizes the term of endearment. He wonders if it is being used out of romantic or platonic love.

“Stop. No one lays a finger on this sweet little boy. Sam, I see you got the snack I sent you,” the old man says, most of the sentence incomprehensible.

“You sent,” Sam repeats.

“Don't worry, you're not like everyone else. You'll never die from drinking too much. You're the exception that proves the rule, just like Satan wanted you to be. So, cut their throats. Have at them.”

“Sammy no,” Dean repeats, his voice frantic.

“Please, be my guest!” the old man exclaims.

There are a series of crashes and odd whooshes garbled by gags, and then it is quiet again.

“No,” Sam says.

“Well fine. If you don't want them then I'll have them,” the old man says.

The old man lets out an odd growl and the whooshing starts again, lasting only a few seconds.

“I'm a horseman, Sam, your power doesn't work on me,” the old man says, and Castiel frowns, not understanding again.

“You're right,” Sam says. “But it'll work on them.”

The old man starts screeching, and Castiel becomes tempted to look.

Sam gasps, breathing heavily.

Castiel suddenly feels full, and he pushes away the nearly empty tray. The movement makes a light screech, and Castiel knows that he should leave, in case any one there decides to look for the noise's source. But he doesn't.

There are loud footsteps coming towards him, and Castiel rises, wiping the residue of beef from his chin.

Dean rounds the corner and gapes at him. The lights snap on- Castiel sees the larger man at the wall by the door, fiddling with the circuit breaker that is usually hidden underneath a wallpaper covered panel.

Dean advances, reaching for something at his side, and Castiel backs away rapidly. His mind whirs, cranking out options- if worst comes to worst, he can leave, he knows- and the lights suddenly pop out in a shower of glass, leaving them in the dark again.

Dean lunges for Castiel and drives a knife into his chest. Castiel startles, trying to yank away from Dean, but the man has his hand gripping Castiel's shoulder, holding him there. Castiel struggles, flinching away, and Dean stumbles backwards, shoved by Castiel's small movement.

Sam holds his hands out towards Castiel and glares at him, but nothing happens.

Castiel tugs the knife out and hands it meekly back to Dean, understanding the concept of belongings. Dean's eyes widen, and his mouth drops open. Castiel realizes that the man is older than last time, with tiny wrinkles beginning to spawn on his cheeks.

“What the...?” Sam gasps, out of breath. Castiel glances over at him, seeing the man lean onto his knees. Castiel focuses on the image of a random hotel room and goes there, uncharacteristically stumbling onto the carpet. There is a heavy weight tugging at his tie, and Castiel glances down. Dean is clutching his tie from his knees, his face incredulous.

Castiel immediately returns to the Biggerson's main area, pulling Dean's hands off of his tie and leaving again. Dean cries out a wordless shout when Castiel yanks his hands, and the scream bothers Castiel as he returns to the hotel room.

The experience is overwhelming for Castiel, and he feels disoriented. His suit is cut open from Dean's assault, but his skin is smooth underneath. He considers going back to the Biggerson's to check and make sure that Dean and Sam are alright. But he restrains himself, understanding that Dean seems to be afraid of him.

The monotony of thumbing through Biggerson's restaurants soothes the sense of fear growing in Castiel's subconscious. Seeing one after another, group after group of hideously obese Americans, makes him feel less and less panicked. After a solid six thousand visits, Castiel has filled an entire binder- he has thirty already that he keeps with his clothes, and he has to go and retrieve a new one from a store. He gets film yet again- he has to load up every hundred photos or so, get another five rolls.

He decides to change clothes again- he realizes that his suit has a small bit of meat stuck to the lapel, not to mention the gash over his heart, so he puts on a pullover and a pair of jeans he snagged back in 1975.

The next few Biggerson's are stuffed full of people, and Castiel gets pictures quickly, not quite at ease around the large crowds.

He starts arriving in the bathrooms, deciding to stick with that for a few thousand. After a thousand of those he's halfway out of the stall when the door flies open and two people stumble in, arms grappling around each other, faces pressed close. Kissing. One, a man, pushes the woman he's with onto a sink counter, and Castiel chooses then to leave, knowing what is considered “private”.

This begins to bother Castiel. He is not usually one for hypotheticals, but he starts to wonder if Dean partakes in the sort of carnal pleasures that Castiel has inadvertently glimpsed in his travels. He considers following Dean the next time he finds the man- just to learn more about his life. He certainly is not an ordinary man, Castiel knows. Ordinary men do not stab strange creatures in restaurants, nor do they look like Dean.

Castiel's records are growing out of control- he carries a string of small notebooks, looped together at their spines by a piece of twine. They are filled with thousands of small passages, like “Butte Montana, 2007, June 6, 5:00 pm—no” and “Black Rock, New York, 2007, October 18, 8:30 pm—yes”.

Towards the front of one of the notebooks is a small section of notes on encounters with Dean- there isn't much to write, but there's a notebook dedicated to him nonetheless. Six pages describing the encounters, plus twelve pages filled with terrible sketches of Dean. The scratched lines and attempted sparkly eyes are a miserable failure at capturing Dean. One has managed to depict his mix of delicate features and masculine facial structure, but his eyes appear dead and far too small.

Dean is the first- and perhaps last- mystery that has ever bothered Castiel. He has witnessed the inexplicable, things that are as supernatural as him, but nothing has captured his curiosity as thoroughly as Dean.

Castiel arrives in an Indiana Biggerson's, only a few months' time after the last incident with Dean Winchester, and raises his notebook-heavy right hand as he walks to the main area to take a picture. As he snaps it he realizes that in the farthest corner of the restaurant, Dean is sitting, talking to Sam as he chews a mouthful of fries. Castiel backs slightly around the corner and snaps more photos, barely waiting for each picture's Polaroid to print before taking another.

Dean laughs, and Castiel fumbles to capture the expression. He's accidentally switched on the flash, and several patrons turn towards him, their eyes accusative. A waitress approaches him, and he turns away, walking towards the bathroom.

He hears voices through the door of the bathroom a moment after he enters.

“He was taking photographs,” the waitress says. “I just wanted to make sure he wasn't snooping on little kids.”

“He went in here?” a man asks. Castiel is certain it's Dean, it's the same golden-inlaid, gravel-strewn voice.

The door swings open and Castiel disappears just in time to see Dean staring at him, a slight frown on his face. Castiel finds himself smiling when he reaches a hotel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dialogue from "You're mister Winchester" to "But it'll work from them" is taken directly from the episode 'My Bloody Valentine'.


	3. Leviticus

It's a rare event, but every once in a while Castiel finds an urge to physically wander the Earth, feel the smooth flex of his tireless legs under him, watch the humans work to do the same. He finds himself in some sort of centralized civilization after a particularly long stretch of Biggerson's visits. There are small buildings all around him, strangling a flood of humanity in a small channel between shops. There is an abundance of women with small bags looped around their waist, dangling in front of their stomach paunches. There are children scampering- there's no other word for it- and a few tired looking business men are slouching to their cars.

There is an electronics store with a wall of screens- Castiel remembers in the sixties when people first started buying the things en mass, calling them televisions. Only in the seventies did he start hearing people call them “TVs”, as if there wasn't enough time to waste on a few extra syllables. 

Castiel stands in front of the panel of TVs, watching image after image flick by- they are constantly changing, the small symbols in the bottom corner declaring a “channel”. It's difficult to focus on only one of the screens, and Castiel's eyes dart around, trying to keep up with the changing channels. A saleswoman comes up beside him as he stares.

“Interested in any of these?” she asks. “I personally recommend our Sony flat-screen model just there, or the LG over on that side.”

“I do not have a home in which to store a television,” Castiel says. 

“Oh,” she says. “Well, if you need any assistance, I'll be-”

“Wait,” Castiel exclaims, stepping towards one of the screens. “Go back!”

“What?” 

“Go back, this screen, go back,” Castiel says. “There! That one!” he shouts, pointing at a different one.

The news channel with a fat 3 in the bottom right appears in small bursts on the wall, Dean Winchester's face splayed across the screen. 

The sales associate presses a button on one of the screens and it freezes on a screen. She continues to push it, and eventually channel 3 appears on every screen, Dean's face multiplied across the wall.

“What is that?” Castiel asks.

“Uh, a criminal?” the women says. “I saw the news this morning, that kid and his brother held up a bank and killed twenty people this morning.” 

“What?” Castiel asks, and his voice comes out a roar. One of the TVs shatters and the woman shrieks. 

“I'm sorry, sir, you'll have to come back once we clean up this mess, we're sorry for the inconvenience.”

Castiel stumbles towards the door.

“If you want to read the whole news story, you can go to the library next door and look it up.”

Castiel strides into the building she referred him to, finding a large desk in the middle of an entrance room. 

“I have been told that I can...look up a man I saw on a TV,” he says. “Where can I do that?”

A young man behind the desk stands up. 

“Computers,” he says, gesturing for Castiel to follow him through an archway. “I'll help you, you seem a little...” he glances at Castiel. “Oblivious.”

The young man sits him down in front of a screen similar to the TVs. Castiel vaguely understands computers- he recalls a time in the 90s that he stumbled into a strange lab full of people working at bulky contraptions called computers to perform tasks. This thing in front of him is much sleeker and smaller, similar to the laptops he's seen people using at Biggerson's, but hadn't made the connection between those and computers. He frowns, wondering if his assumption is correct.

“Is this like a laptop?” Castiel asks.

“Well, yeah,” the librarian says. “Laptops are just portable computers, man.”

The young man reaches over his shoulder and starts tapping at the “keyboard” carefully.

“Who are you looking up, dude?” he asks. 

“Dean Winchester,” Castiel says.

“Oh, dude, the serial killer? I heard about him, it's crazy,” the guy says, pressing keys. Dean's name appears on the screen, and abruptly an image of him comes up. 

“There you go,” he says. “His whole life story, really.”

Castiel nods, reaching for the mouse. His scrolling is ragged and awkward, and the boy hesitates, as if to check for Castiel's ability. 

The news story begins with a description of Dean and Sam's crimes. They are horrific, and Castiel's stomach feels empty and uncomfortable. This continues for most of the article. The author of the article comments proudly that they 'did some extensive research' into the boys and 'uncovered some revealing things'. It is then explained that in some old records from Kansas the author found that Sam and Dean's mother had died in a house fire that nearly killed the boys and their father, too. The author describes with words illustrating shock that from that point on, there were little to no records of the Winchesters as children. There were a few school records of the Winchester boys, but even those supposedly disappeared a few years after the fire. 

There are police records the author found of both boys- Dean has been arrested for attacking a woman, there are records of Dean's death, followed by records of his arrest for murdering a woman, along with Sam for suspected association, the arrests from which they suspiciously escaped and a police officer named Diane was accused of releasing them, Dean has several other charges- mail fraud, credit card fraud, grave desecration, breaking and entering, armed robbery, kidnapping, and an extra murder count. Castiel is confused by the whole list, and barely can comprehend the time-line that the author presents. Castiel goes back to the search page that the helpful boy had pulled up, and a new news story about the boys has appeared, announcing that they have murdered more people. 

Castiel feels choked, and he stands up, abandoning the computer. He frowns, wondering if he misunderstood something that he read, wondering if this is all some hallucination. The guy at the desk shouts something casually to him as he leaves, but the words blur into blackness and he doesn't really hear them, let alone comprehend them. He feels a hand on his shoulder, and turns. The librarian is standing there, his chestnut hair mussed, glasses crammed into the curls. 

“Hey, did you find everything you were looking for?” he asks, shoving his sweater sleeves up his arms. “I wasn't sure you had full control of that computer.”

“I did,” Castiel says, turning away again to keep walking. He decides to aim for the alley between the electronics store and this library, assuming that it will be empty for his departure.

“Hey, wait,” the librarian says, catching his arm. “What's your name?”

Castiel frowns. “I am not...I do not...”

“What?” the young man asks.

“I do not...” Castiel feels his throat go taut, never having questioned that before. “I do not know.” 

“Oh,” the librarian says, frowning deeply. “Well, I'm Sam...it was nice meeting you. It was interesting.”

Castiel feels something like disgust at the name Sam, and he nods briefly at the young man and leaves the library at last, turning into the alley. He glances back towards the library and sees the librarian leaning out, his eyebrows raised as Castiel disappears into the dark alley. He slips back inside as Castiel grimaces at him.

Castiel huffs, confused by nearly everything he's experienced in this place. He glares down at his feet as he walks towards the end of the alley, and slams into a woman. 

“Excuse me,” Castiel says, and looks up at the woman. She is sneering at him, and when he meets her eyes she laughs.

“Oh,” she says, shoving him into the wall. Deep blackness suddenly pools over her eyes, and she bares her teeth. “What are you doing down here, filthy thing?” 

Castiel yanks away from the woman.

“What are you saying?” he asks, backing away.

She laughs again. “You must be a reject,” she says. “Kicked out, or what?”

He shakes his head and leaves, moving to a new hotel. He sits down on the bed, staring down at his hands. He doesn't understand anything he has experienced, from the electronics store to the alleyway, and he feels strangely emptied of emotion and comprehension.


End file.
